


Why Would Anyone Wanna Hurt that Guy? or 5 Times Clint was the Only One who Suspected Bruce was Being Abused and 1 Time He Finally Did Something About It

by slashyslash



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, Bruce Banner needs help, Bruce Feels, Clint Barton saves the day, Domestic Violence, Hurt Bruce Banner, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Physical Abuse, Poor Bruce, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashyslash/pseuds/slashyslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is the only one who suspects Bruce is in an abusive relationship (with original character, Mike). Bruce denies anyone is hurting him, and everyone thinks Clint is just jealous! But rough and tough Clint will save the day. Keep reading till the end if you want the slash!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously some non-canonical stuff, like the gang all lives together and Clint doesn't have a family... and Bruce and Clint are gay... yeah, there's that.

Banner had been dating the guy, Mike, for a while before Clint noticed anything: three months, maybe four? The archer wasn't sure and really, he could be way off, since he didn't tend to pay much attention to the gamma expert's love life or anything else about him, to be honest. Banner was pretty quiet and kept to himself, and Clint had other things to think about, like how to dislodge these arrows from the couch cushion he and Tony had shot them through. 

That's what he was doing, twisting and pulling an arrow, trying to get it out without damaging it, when Steve, who was playing cards with Sam, said suddenly, “Bruce, that's quite the shiner. You okay?”

Clint's head shot up and he dropped the arrow. He had heard Banner come in a moment ago after spending the last few nights at Mike's and had muttered the obligatory disinterested “hello” without looking up from his task. But now he was intrigued. Had the mild mannered science nerd got in a fight? 

“I never took you for a scrapper, Banner,” he said, staring at the puffy black ring around the scientist's eye. Ouch! That was a bad one. “Let me guess, ol' Hulky came out to play. We should see the other guy, right?”

“The other guy's got a broken spine,” Bruce replied with a withering smile. “Don't get too excited, though, it's really not much of a story. I was reaching for something on a high shelf at Mike's house and a book fell on my face. Broke my glasses, too.” He raised his hand to show them the bent frames he clutched. “Hard cover,” he added, “hurt like a mother fucker.”

Steve pursed his lips at the unnecessary language.

Clint cocked his head to the side and smirked, disbelieving. “Really?”

Only Sam laughed. “Got the crap beat out of him by a flying book! Better assemble the Avengers.”

Banner, grimacing momentarily at the pain of using the muscles around the affected eye, grinned. “I told you it was a non-story. I'm going to go ice this thing.”

As soon as he had gone, Clint turned to Steve and Sam. “What do you think really happened?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Sam looked bewildered.

“Oh, come on, you believe that? It's a crock of shit.” He had seen plenty of black eyes in his life, and the story just wasn't adding up. “There's a perfect circle around his eye; you can practically see the shape of a fist. No book did that damage.”

Steve stood up, looking irritated. “What are you saying?”

“I don't know.” Clint shrugged. “But he was just at Mike's house, so maybe Mike hit him.”

“Well, I don't think we should be accusing people of things when we have no evidence.”

Steve and Mike got along quite well, so Clint wasn't surprised to see him sticking up for the guy. He couldn't be sure, of course, that Mike had done it, but he felt strongly that Banner was lying about the injury. Well, whatever the truth was, everyone had a right to their secrets, so he would have to just let it go and hope the guy would be smart enough to get himself out of any situation he shouldn't be in.

“Besides,” said Sam, “if Mike hit him, wouldn't Bruce go full Hulk on his ass?”

“You've got a point there,” Clint conceded. “Like how if anyone hit me they'd get an arrow through the skull. We're Avengers, nobody's stupid enough to try any domestic violence shit with us. Anyway, why would anyone wanna hurt that guy? Banner's all soft and sweet and shit, like... like teddy bear guts. That guy couldn't make you mad enough to even flick him.”

By the time Bruce's black eye turned yellow and began to fade, Clint had put any suspicion of Mike a long way out of his mind.


	2. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy, some of those other Avengers are really clueless...

Sometimes Mike came over and nothing weird happened. Everyone hung out, played pool, talked current events, or had drinks, and it was pleasant or boring or slightly forgettable. But this was not one of those times, at least not as far as Clint was concerned. 

He had sensed some sort of tension between Banner and his boyfriend from the moment Mike walked in the door. Against his better judgement (which told him to stay out of the science nerd's business since it had no bearing on his own life), he found himself immediately on high alert, unable to quash his curiosity. Mike had murmured something and Banner had shaken his head, looking upset or worried, and said quietly, “Not now. Let's just have lunch, okay?”

The whole gang seated themselves around the table while Clint helped Natasha serve the cob salad she had made. Mike didn't want any.

“Bruce and I are busy,” he said, standing behind Banner's chair with his hands planted firmly on his shoulders. “Right, babe?” 

Clint scowled. That was just rude, and after Natasha had been nice enough to make lunch for everyone. He got in front of Banner with the serving bowl in his hands and gave him a hard look. “Are _you_ eating, or what?”

He looked sheepishly at Natasha, who stood staring back at him with her arms crossed in a challenging manner, then peeked over his shoulder at Mike. “Yeah, I think I will have some, if that's alright. Natasha's food is always delicious.”

The entire meal made Clint want to gag, not because the food was bad – it was delicious, as Banner had predicted – but because Mike felt the need to loom over his lover the whole time, kissing his neck and nibbling his ears and urging him to hurry up and finish. It was disgusting enough on it's own, but even worse was the knowledge that Mike was rushing Banner for the obvious reason of bringing him down just a few steps to his bedroom below the kitchen where everyone could guess and probably hear what would happen next.

Clint sighed as he got up to refill his coffee, throwing his head back and casting his eyes to the ceiling to avoid watching Mike sticking his hand down the front of Banner's shirt to rub his chest. Natasha followed him to the counter on the other side of the kitchen. 

“Clint Barton, you insanely jealous man,” she teased.

“What? Where the hell'd you get that from?”

“You haven't stopped glaring at those two since we sat down.” She poured his coffee and topped up her own. “Can't say I blame you: that Mike is quite the catch, looks like a model. Too bad for me he's gay.”

Clint dropped his jaw in an expression of mixed horror and disgust. “You think I'm jealous of Banner 'cause he's got Mike? Are you out of your mind? That sick fu-” He cut himself off, blurting, “No, no, if I was jealous of anyone it would be Mike 'cause he's got Banner.” He picked up his coffee and hissed, “But I'm not jealous, just done with the excessive PDA's while I'm trying to fuckin' eat.”

Back at the table, Mike kept complaining that Bruce was eating too slowly. Finally, he grabbed the fork from his hand and put it on the table. “You're done,” he said firmly.

Clint didn't like that very much, to say the least, but he tried not to look at the couple so Natasha would stop thinking he had a thing for one of them. It took all his restraint not to so much as glare at Mike when what he really felt like doing was getting in his face and telling him, “Hey buddy, you just crossed a line.”

Banner didn't pick up his fork, just gave a quick goodbye wave to the others and followed Mike downstairs. Natasha smirked at Clint, who couldn't help stabbing the back of her hand briefly with his fork.

It wasn't long before they heard Mike's voice. Clint froze – he was shouting... he was yelling at Banner. He couldn't make out all the words, but he heard, “What, are you stupid?” and a stream of swearing. Everyone else at the table snickered or rolled their eyes as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“Trouble in paradise,” Tony quipped lightly.

Thor laughed. “He'd best not make Bruce angry, but I suppose he does not know it yet.”

Natasha, seeing the tightening of Clint's jaw and the crease in his brow, put her hand on his forearm and said, “Relax, it's just a little cat fight.”

He bit down on his lip hard, telling himself to just ignore it and relax, like Natasha said. But the problem was it didn't sound like a fight. Because only one guy was yelling. There was no sound from Banner whatsoever. 

But suddenly there was a new sound – a crash, as if something had been thrown, then the louder overlapping crashes and bangs of things falling over or being smashed.

“That better not have been expensive equipment,” Tony groaned.

Clint, in the meantime, had jumped to his feet at the first crash and was around the other side of the table, jabbing his finger inches from Steve's face. “See? You believed him about the shiner, but now you gotta admit I was right. That Mike is a punk and you all,” he turned to accuse the rest of the group, “are just going to sit back and let him hurt a member of our team.”

“Clint, cool it.” Tony reclined as much as he could on his kitchen chair to demonstrate his own coolness and total lack of concern. “If you would shut up and listen, you'd hear what we're all hearing now. No more fighting; in fact, quite the opposite.”

He listened. Bed springs creaking loud and fast, the rhythmic thump of the headboard hitting the wall hard, Mike's aggressive, animalistic grunting. He sat down feeling like he was gonna puke, his stomach churning while the rest just laughed. Whatever had happened, it was over... at least, that's what all the others seemed to think.

Still, there had been the yelling, the crashing, banging, calling Banner stupid – Banner was _so_ not stupid. And now there was the fact that the sex sounded rough and he could still only hear Mike's voice. What was happening down there? How could they all be so sure everything was okay just because they could hear someone getting fucked? Fucking wasn't always okay, it was sometimes violent. Fucking sometimes meant someone was getting... Oh god, his stomach was really churning now. He went outside to get a hold of himself and try to push the word “raped” out of his mind, leaving the rest of the team to giggle like little kids over Mike's grunting; Banner's silence.


	3. The Shower

He was down in the lab with Tony and Banner, helping out. Not of his own free will, of course – he couldn't think of anything less enjoyable than doing grunt work for geeks – but because Tony was making him be their “lab bitch” for the day. 

It was all the result of a prank gone wrong, so not Clint's fault, technically, just bad luck. He had purchased a replica of Thor's hammer that looked quite real and put it on the floor in the middle of the living room. Then, he had goaded Tony into trying to lift it. Tony, of course, thinking it was the super heavy _real_ hammer, crouched down and pulled with all his might. The unexpected lightness of the hammer had sent him flying backwards with all the force of his muscular frame into a grand piano, while the toy hammer soared like a little bird through the air. 

_And now, just because he threw his back out and got to sit on his ass for a couple days, I have to shine his suits and bots and fetch shit,_ Clint thought, shaking his head. It was so annoying.

Tony smacked his ass every time he walked by and said things like, “Speed it up, lab bitch. Hustle.” Clint sort of wished Banner would smack him like that, but unlike Tony, he was too absorbed in his work to mess around. 

He only payed attention to Clint to show him how to mix a chemical compound he needed. “Bring it to me when you're done, and don't get any on your skin,” he said, handing him a pair of gloves and some safety goggles. 

Clint finished mixing the various powders in a small rectangular pan and carried it across the room to where Banner was studying a diagram on a holographic screen and taking notes. He had never noticed just how sexy the guy was until today: all that wild hair that looked like it needed a strong hand to tame it, the soulful brown eyes and chiseled jaw set tightly in concentration, and those lips... damn. 

As his mind wandered shamelessly to what that pretty mouth might be good for, he moved to hand the tray of chemicals to Banner but miscalculated the distance and wound up spilling it all over the front of his shirt.

“Oh shit, Clint!” Bruce yelled, his eyes wider than Clint had ever seen them go. “Not for skin, not for skin, didn't I say that already?”

He froze, unable to do more than stutter how sorry he was, but Tony sprang into action, grabbing Bruce, who was obviously in pain as the chemical powder spilled down from his shirt collar onto his skin, from behind and directing him through the lab. “Shower! Now!” he ordered.

Tony shoved him into a shower and turned it on, then ran for the first aid kit, tossing a pair of scissors to the bewildered Clint, who had followed guiltily behind, terrified that he had broken the scientist. 

“He'll be fine,” Tony assured him, seeing the look of fear on his face, “but you need to cut that shirt off stat so the chemicals can wash away.”

If only he were doing this under any other circumstance. Clint didn't waste any time, though. Starting at the bottom, he cut straight up to the collar as Banner grimaced and moaned through clenched teeth, “It burns, get it off me.” He knew the guy was in pain, so he didn't think anything of it at first when his face became even more pained as he pulled his ruined shirt off by the sleeves – no doubt corrosive chemicals would make that kind of thing unpleasant. 

But in a moment Clint saw that it wasn't the burning that was stopping him from stripping down quickly: if that had been the case, he would have it off in a flash, like ripping off a bandaid. But he was moving so slowly, with his eyes scrunched shut and his face contorted, letting out an “Ah!” with each pull of the sleeve – it was more like the movements were hurting, rather than the powder.

Clint moved to help him, getting right into the shower stall to tear the shirt off himself, hardly noticing that he was getting soaked. When he got it off and saw what hid beneath it, his mouth fell open in shock. Banner's arms, ribcage, and back were covered in red marks and bruises. 

Bruce, still in obvious pain, saw him staring and blurted, “It's the chemicals, those are burns from the chemicals!”

Clint stood in the shower with him, water pouring down his face, once again frozen to the spot. “Fuck that, Banner,” he said, “you're lying to me.”


	4. The Doorbell

Clint felt terrible; he shouldn't have been such a jerk, calling Banner a liar when he could have just ignored the bruises. If the guy wanted him to believe they were nothing more than burns, what did it matter anyway? Sure, it stung a bit to be blamed for causing all that damage, all those purple and brown splotches that were clearly not burns, but it wasn't like Banner was holding it against him or anything; he hadn't said a word about the chemical spill in the week since it happened. In fact, he hadn't said anything to Clint at all, which was totally normal – the two hardly ever spoke and were completely uninterested in each other.

But now Clint wanted the shy scientist to talk to him. He really, _really_ wanted him to. He couldn't get him out of his mind. In the stillness of the night when, by habit and without thought, he pushed his hand past the elastic of his boxers as he did every night, his mind's eye would immediately focus on that almost unbearably sexy image of Banner in the shower – not bruised and beaten and in pain, but the Banner he had seen just before the shirt came off: soaking wet, water drops forming on the ends of his hair, then freeing themselves and sliding down over his face, clothes clinging like a second skin to his thin, toned frame. 

He always came after just a few strokes, and once he even had to bite down on a pillow to hide a Hulk-sized moan.

Now, it was a Friday evening and a perfectly dry and annoyingly aloof Banner was buzzing around the house, getting ready for a date with Mike. He hadn't said anything about it, of course, but Clint could tell by the way he was all done up: a freshly ironed or possibly brand new dress shirt -- it was too crisp to have just come out of the closet, pants with a nice crease right where it was supposed to be (again, either ironed or straight from the store), and a spritz of cologne. 

When the doorbell rang, the silent one spoke to him for the first time all week: “Oh no, that's Mike. Clint, you have to stall. I'm not ready!”

Clint looked up at his handsomely dressed colleague from his spot on the couch. “You look pretty ready to me,” he said.

“No I don't, I haven't even done my hair,” Banner said frantically. “I look like shit.”

He started to race out of the room, but Clint jumped up and caught him by the wrist, yanking him back.

“What the hell are you talking about? You don't look like shit, man; you look... you're... you're gorgeous.” It was the truth, after all, so why not say it?

Banner's eyebrows raised a bit in surprise at the compliment, but he remained agitated, trying with no luck to twist out of Clint's firm grasp. “Come on, just answer the door and buy me a few minutes.”

“Bruce.” He never called him that. He had taken comfort in the emotional distance that calling the strange guy by his last name had always afforded him, but he wanted closeness now. “Bruce, you can do better.”

He released his grip, though, and Bruce scampered off to do his hair -- _since when did that dishevelled scientist ever do anything to his hair?_ \-- while he answered the door just as Mike rang the doorbell for a second time.

“Hey, Hawkeye!” Mike said. When Clint didn't greet him or move out of the way, he slipped past him into the foyer. “Where's my boy toy?”

“Getting ready,” Clint snarled, eyes narrowed. Then he muttered under his breath, “Don't break your toys, pal.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He wanted to just give it a rest, let Bruce fight his own battles, he'd come around eventually and leave this jerk. But knowing what he did about Bruce's childhood made him feel more protective than was probably necessary. The guy didn't need to go through anymore shit. 

When Bruce came into the room, his curls had been subdued with some sort of product most likely belonging to Tony, and he was smiling nervously and wringing his hands. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, cocking his head.

Mike took him by the shoulders and pushed him playfully up against the closed door, kissing him and making assurances that he was just happy to see him, he didn't mind waiting. Only, Clint didn't think it was very playful to continue holding him there, pressed against him so he couldn't move away. On the other hand, he himself had just held him by the wrist, hadn't he? So maybe this was okay, maybe he shouldn't be such a fucking hypocrite, he told himself.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said again, as if he hadn't heard a word Mike said. He appeared to swallow hard. Clint watched closely, sensing something was up. “I just wanted to finish doing my hair because last time I didn't do it you said I looked like trash and you got so mad, you --”

Mike raised two fingers and placed them on his captive's lips, who immediately fell silent. “Careful,” he murmured.

 _Careful?_ Clint thought. What was that supposed to mean? Careful what you say in front of people. That was all it could mean. His heart sank. 

The two left and Clint ran to find the others. He had told Tony about the bruises and he had brushed him off, pointing out just as Sam had that Bruce would definitely turn green if someone hurt him. It was true, yes, he would go Hulk, but... well, something was going on, he was almost sure of it.

“Thor!” he shouted, finding the Asgardian practising baseball swings with his hammer. “Thor, I think Mike's hurting Bruce. We've gotta do something. Just now, he was really controlling and Bruce was scared, I could tell.”

Thor laughed. “Jealousy, Barton, is a quality you have in common with a certain brother of mine.”

 _Okay,_ Clint thought, _no one else sees this. Bruce denies it. Hulk's either been asleep at the wheel or there really is no reason for him to come out. So maybe I am just jealous. After all, I do wanna fuck Banner's brains out, and no one in their right mind would wanna hurt that guy anyway._


	5. The Tea

Bruce had spilled his tea on Mike.

It wouldn't have been very hot; he had been nursing it for at least twenty minutes. He was sitting on Mike's lap at the time – which made Clint feel like going over there and yanking him off, maybe pulling him onto his own lap – and it was just one of those silly, clumsy moves, some overly large sweep of the arm as he described a particularly exciting moment on the Quinjet. The lukewarm tea splashed onto Mike's pants like he'd wet himself, and onto the floor in front of their shared armchair. 

The others – everyone was hanging out together in the living room – didn't react at first. There was nothing to react to, just a little spilt tea. But everyone became silent and fidgety, trying to look at anything but the couple, when Mike jumped up from the chair, holding Bruce by the shoulder of his sweater.

“Watch what you're doing!” he demanded, shaking him lightly by the sweater ( _restraining himself,_ Clint thought, _because we're all here_ ). His voice was controlled but firm, like a teacher or parent disciplining a child. “I've told you before to pay attention to what you're doing. Now clean it up.”

Bruce, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment, went silently to the kitchen for a rag. 

Tony leaned over to Clint, whose hands were balling into fists as his eyes shot daggers in Mike's direction. “Easy there, tiger,” he murmured, “we all know Bruce can be clumsy; Mike probably just doesn't see it as the endearing quality the rest of us have come to adore. Okay? Give him time, he'll get there.”

Clint bit his tongue and unclenched his fists, but it took all he had in him.

When Bruce came back with a rag, Mike stepped in front of him before he had a chance to do anything. “Get on your knees and wipe it up.”

He pointed to the floor like the science genius was his dog; Clint couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up just as Bruce was lowering himself to his knees at Mike's feet. “You're overstepping, dude,” he said, pointing a finger at the smirking man. “Leave him alone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Mike turned to him. “Any one of you would be pissed if someone spilled hot tea in your lap. What you might see as an accident, I see as a habit of carelessness that Bruce needs to change for the good of our relationship. And that, Hawkeye, is between me and him and it's none of your concern.”

Clint looked to the others to back him up, but they all just stared at him or at Mike, looking a little embarrassed to be witnessing the scene, but not at all worried. They thought Bruce Banner was fully capable of taking care of himself. They weren't going to stand by and let Clint kick Mike's controlling ass, because they didn't think he could possibly be abusing the dude with the gigantic sized alter-ego. So he did the only thing he could do at that moment: he followed Bruce out of the room when he went to put the rag in the laundry.

“Hey,” he said to get Bruce's attention when they were alone.

He turned and stared at Clint with big brown eyes. He still held the wet rag, wringing it nervously between two shaky hands. Little drops of tea squeezed out and onto the floor.

“Bruce, do you need help?”

He feigned surprise, but he looked like he was about to cry. “Why would I?”

“Because that douche is beating you.”

Bruce snorted. “No he's not. Anyway, I'm not even supposed to be talking to you, Clint.”

“Oh, he's telling you who you can talk to now?” Clint seethed. “Guy's got abusive fuck written all over him. But you just go ahead and let that asshole fuck up your life if you want to, Banner.” He slammed his hand angrily against the side of the washing machine, making a much louder bang than he'd meant to in the small laundry room. “If you were with me, though, I would treat you right. You wouldn't have to worry about being in so much goddamn _pain_ you can't even pull your fucking shirt off.”

He turned to storm out of the room, furious that Mike would give orders not to talk to him -- not to mention that Bruce planned to go along with it! -- but heard a strange noise behind him, like a creaking floorboard or something. It was Bruce, crying. _Goddammit,_ did he really have to be crying? Clint had no idea how to deal with tears. 

“Look,” he started, “just let me help you, man. There's nothing I want more than to punch Mike right in his stupid face. Just say the word.”

Bruce shook his lowered head and kept on snivelling, not looking up. Clint wasn't sure what to do next. He was beginning to feel so uncomfortable he just wanted to get out of there.

“Well... do you... do you want me to hug you or something? Should I be, like, comforting... you?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

Bruce shook his head again, staring at the floor.

So Clint left. He didn't want to leave him there, crying, but there was nothing else to do and seeing the tears made his heart hurt. For the first time since he had joined the Avengers he felt completely helpless. He couldn't bare to be back in the same room with Mike, and he would probably kill him if he was, so instead he went up to his bedroom and fired arrows into all his furniture till his arm was sore and everything looked like Swiss cheese.


	6. The Beat Down

“The problem is, you _don't_ think, Bruce; you're like a fucking toddler! That's why no one wants you on the team -- because all you can do is throw your little baby tantrums and smash shit up while the rest of them are actually using combat skills! Face it, you're useless!”

The shouting from Bruce's room was loud enough to wake Clint, two floors above. It was the middle of the night, and Mike was really laying into him. Clint flattened a pillow over his head to drown it out. _There's nothing you can do, man,_ he told himself, _the doc doesn't want any interference._ Fuck, the whole situation sucked so bad.

“You think I'm being mean? If you weren't always screwing up, I wouldn't _have_ to be mean!”

 _Oh, god, oh, god._ Clint writhed around on his bed, kicking and twisting the covers and keeping the pillow over his face to muffle his cries of frustration. How could this guy call Bruce a screw-up? He was so sweet, and he tried so hard...

“Seriously, you're gonna be a baby about it? _What is wrong with you?_ Well, if you think that hurt, just wait! You've been pushing my buttons all fucking night and I am just getting started on you!”

That did it. Clearly, Bruce was getting beat up – right under Clint's goddamn nose. He finally had a chance to stop it, and he was not gonna let that shit play out on his watch. Oh _hell_ no, you don't mess with a member of the team, especially one as lovable as Bruce Banner. He uncurled his legs from his mass of blankets and sheets and tripped out of bed, somewhat horrified to see that the boner he had woken up with had not diminished and was still going unbelievably strong. _The one damn time you don't want it to last..._

There was a thump, something (or someone, Clint thought angrily) hitting against the wall or floor. Hell with the boner; he didn't have time to be embarrassed. On the way out of his room he grabbed for his bow, but thought better of it at the last second. Better not to have a deadly weapon on hand when he was this pissed off.

By the time he got down the first flight of stairs, he could hear the faint popping of someone getting hit multiple times, and Bruce's reactions like the sound effects in comic books – a low “ugh” or “hnn” after each blow. 

Clint met Natasha crossing through the living room. Like him, she was also half naked, also rushing for the stairs down to Bruce's room. She stopped in her tracks and nodded him on, face white with shock. “Yeah, you go.” 

***

Mike had Bruce up against the wall, one hand pressed into his shoulder blade, the other gripping his hair as he slammed the back of his head into the wall. Clint caught his arm just as he drew back to punch Bruce in the face, something he had obviously done already – the left side of Bruce's face was swollen and purple and smeared with blood, which trickled from his nose and into his open mouth. 

In a second, Clint had Mike on the floor and was holding him down with one knee buried in his chest as he punched him over and over in the face, grunting and bearing his teeth like a wild animal. Mike didn't dare throw any punches back; he just cowered, trying to protect his perfect nose and teeth with his hands. It didn't help, though, and Clint didn't slow down until Mike's face looked like Bruce's: puffy and covered in blood. Even then it was hard to make himself stop pummeling the little shit, but he knew he could kill him if he kept going. He grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet, marching him to where Bruce still leaned precariously against the wall, wobbling as if he were going to pass out. Clint thought he'd better sit him down so he didn't fall and get even more hurt, but he had something to do first. 

“Tell Dr. Banner you're sorry,” he panted, shaking Mike. “Say it, you fuck.”

“Sorry,” Mike slurred through bloody lips.

“ _Dr. Banner_.”

“Sorry, Dr. Banner.”

“Tell him he's not useless, tell him the team needs him.”

“You're not useless, Bruce. You know I would never want to hurt you--” 

Clint slapped him hard in the back of the head. “No! Don't try to sweet talk him, you're done with him. Forever.”

Steve appeared at the door. He figured they all must be out there, waiting to make sure Bruce was okay, letting him have his moment with the guy he'd wanted to destroy for so long.

“Cap, get him out of here,” Clint said, turning the wretch around and shoving him toward Steve, “and get me some ice for Bruce's face.”

Steve nodded. “You were right, Barton. I shouldn't have doubted your instincts.” 

He grabbed Mike and marched him out the bedroom door. Clint heard a loud groan as they disappeared, and he knew Steve hadn't been able to resist getting one last shot in.

With the monster gone, he was ready to focus his full attention on Bruce, who was starting to slide sideways down the wall. He caught him and brought him to the bed.

“Here, buddy, you're alright,” he said as he lowered him to the mattress and sat beside him. Bruce slumped over, laying his battered head in Clint's lap.

Clint clapped him on the shoulder. He wasn't really sure what else to do with his hands, but he felt like he should touch him in some way. Be comforting. It was hard for him to figure it out; he just wasn't a cuddly guy.

Luckily, Bruce was a cuddly guy, and he reached over and took the hand from his shoulder and placed it on his head, where Clint found himself slowly stroking the soft brown curls. It was nice. His hard-on was returning, which seemed extra inappropriate when he looked down at his crush's bloody and bruised face, but he gave in to it, knowing that he could hold out until Bruce had put this relationship behind him before making a move.

Bruce didn't seem to notice what was going on behind his head, but when Steve came in with the ice pack and a box of Kleenex for Bruce's bloody nose, he looked down at the bulge in Clint's underwear and said, “Really? Come on.”

Clint shrugged. “Bruce,” he said, passing him a Kleenex and holding the ice pack, wrapped in a dish towel, to his cheek, “everybody thought Mike couldn't be hurting you because the Hulk would've smashed him. Why didn't that ever happen?”

Silence filled the room for a moment while Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, warm tears spilled out onto Clint's bare leg.

“Remember that time,” he began, his voice breaking, “that we were goofing around in the lab, and I threw Steve's shield, and it dented Tony's Iron Man suit?”

“Yeah, I remember. Tony was so pissed,” Clint chuckled.

“He yelled at me. He got right in my face. But the... the other guy,” he choked back a sob, “the other guy didn't come.”

“I don't get it. Why?”

He squeezed his eyes shut again like he was trying to hide inside himself as he whispered, “He never comes when it's my fault. If I deserve it, I just take it. I get what I deserve.”

Clint stayed quiet for a moment, too horrified by this revelation to think of anything to say. He stroked Bruce's hair and ran his fingers down to his neck, hovering over a thumb-shaped bruise where Mike must have put his hands around his throat and squeezed. Finally, he said softly, “That's bullshit, you know.” Bruce didn't say anything, so he continued, “You think you deserve to get hit 'cause you're used to it, that's all you've known. But you've never deserved any of that shit, even when you were little. Look, everyone on this team loves you: Natasha loves you, Tony loves you, Thor loves you, Steve loves you, Sam loves you...” 

Clint took a deep breath. 

“I... love you,” he said tentatively.

Bruce opened his wet eyes and sniffled, putting the Kleenex to his bloody nose again. “Really?” he said. “You love me? I thought you just, sort of, tolerated me.”

Clint lifted Bruce's hand and pressed his lips to it, breathing in the sweet scent of his skin as he kissed him for the first time. “I kicked ass for you, didn't I?” he asked, playing with his hair again. “Look, I'm not the most romantic guy, but I swear I love you, man. You have no fuckin' idea how much I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the last chapter. It was getting a bit long, so I decided to leave the sex -- and there WILL be sex -- for another chapter. So, here's the thing: I'm thinking of writing Clint as a bit sexually aggressive, since I haven't written him as the most gentle type of guy. But I'm worried about squicking people out, since Bruce has been so badly abused by his last boyfriend. I don't plan on making Clint a jerk or anything, but I'm thinking more rough than sweet, like he has to try hard to tone himself down so he's not acting too overly aggressive, if that makes sense. If you have an opinion on the matter, like you definitely don't want to read that, or maybe you do, feel free to comment. Or if there's anything in particular you'd like to see happen between them, let me know that too. The last chapter is not written at all, so anything goes at this point.
> 
> P.S. - for a real story about Jeremy Renner just rollin' with an embarrassing boner, search youtube for Jeremy Renner's viagra disaster. You're welcome.


	7. The Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Clint and Bruce are about to get it ON. However, I will say that I don't enjoy writing sex scenes, so I hope this one is alright. *shrugs* I did my best. Anyway, there's your warning: graphic sex ahead that may or may not be poorly written. Thanks all for reading :)

Clint wanted to wait for the right time to show Bruce how he really felt; he gave him time to get over the brutality of his relationship with Mike. The last thing he wanted was for Bruce to feel at all threatened by him.

The next couple of weeks were spent enjoying each other's company, something the two had never done before. They became close friends, and Bruce thanked Clint several times for rescuing him from those horrific circumstances.

“You didn't have to do that for me,” he said.

“I know,” Clint put both hands on his shoulders and looked him square in the eye to show he was utterly serious, “but I wanted to help you. I would never, _ever_ let someone mess with you, man.” 

Then, one night, the whole team was together in the living room, snacking on popcorn and watching America's Got Talent, when Bruce suddenly got up from the chair he was sitting in. Clint was sitting between Tony and Steve on the couch, lounging back lazily with one foot on the ottoman and the other several inches inside Steve's personal bubble. Steve kept trying to nudge his leg over to his own space, but he continued to take up most of the room with his legs spread wide. There was enough room between his legs for Bruce to fit comfortably.

Clint sat up a bit, startled, when Bruce sat down, but quickly got back into his lounging position when he realized he was about to get an incredible cuddle, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and pulling him closer. Bruce relaxed against his chest, snuggling up.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You guys are so adorable I'm gonna hurl.” 

Clint removed his arm momentarily from the cozy embrace to flip Sam off, then wrapped Bruce up in it again and nuzzled a cheek against his soft hair. It all felt so amazing, except for his jeans, which had suddenly become uncomfortably tight. He peeked over his cuddle partner's shoulder to see if he might be in the same predicament and, sure enough, he saw that Bruce had pulled one foot up onto the couch and raised his knee awkwardly in what appeared to be an effort to hide the hard bulge in his pants. 

The show had just come back from commercial break, and everyone else was focused on a woman doing a pole dance routine for the judges. When Bruce put his hand on Clint's thigh and ran it softly up and down, Clint felt like his eyes were going to roll into the back of his head from the pleasure.

“Ah, you're amazing,” he whispered in Bruce's ear.

Bruce just smiled and kept stroking his leg, not looking away from the TV screen.

Clint leaned closer to his ear to whisper as quietly as he could, “Do you wanna go up to my room?”

A nod of agreement.

It was all Clint could do to keep himself from leaping over the back of the couch and dashing upstairs. He reached into his jeans pocket, keeping one arm around Bruce, who was moving to stand, to hold him in front like a shield as he adjusted himself so the others wouldn't notice his massive hard-on when he got up.

As the two headed upstairs without a word, Clint could feel five sets of eyes on him. “Oh, shut up,” he called over his shoulder, which sent the team into fits of giggles.

“Hey, JARVIS,” Tony said loudly, so Clint and Bruce would hear, “spy on those two, would you? And set up a live feed of Barton's bedroom so we can watch Clint's Got Talent!”

“Very funny, Tony!” Bruce called down the stairs.

“Don't worry about those guys.” Clint ushered him swiftly into the bedroom. “I need you. Right now.”

He shoved Bruce against the wall, locking him into a passionate kiss, pushing his tongue between the full, soft lips as he fumbled to unbutton the other man's shirt. Bruce kissed back, reaching around Clint's neck and sliding his fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. He stopped kissing for a moment to chuckle, “You taste like popcorn.” 

“Oh, my god, Bruce,” Clint smiled, “how are you so fucking adorable?”

He got the shirt off and pulled off his own t-shirt, then leaned his forehead against the other's, looking down at his body. The last time he had seen that muscular torso, it was covered in bruises. Now, there were none. His face was mostly better, too, except for bluish bruise on his cheek, the last reminder of the violence he had endured.

Bruce tilted his chin up and the two were kissing again and unbuttoning each other's pants with a desperate urgency. 

“I can't wait to get your clothes off,” Clint panted, yanking down his own jeans and struggling to step out of them. “I'm gonna fuck you so hard.”

“Um... I don't know about that, Clint.” 

Bruce's face became hesitant, uncomfortable, like he was biting the inside of his lip, and Clint knew he would have to back off a bit. Still, he wasn't sure if he could do that – he tended to be extra aggressive when it came to sex, and he was already having trouble holding himself back from throwing Bruce down on the bed and having his way with him.

“Okay. How about I fuck you... medium-hard?”

“Well...” Bruce's voice got quieter. “Maybe you could start out gentle and we'll see?”

Clint remembered the day they'd all heard him and Mike downstairs. “When you and Mike had sex,” he asked, “was he sometimes too rough with you?”

Bruce nodded, lowering his head in shame and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “He would hurt me on purpose. You know... as punishment.” He barely spoke the last two words; they came out as a distant whisper.

Clint drew in his breath, trying to manage the rage that suddenly came over him. “I wish I hadn't already beat the crap out of that son of a bitch, so I could do it now.” He leaned in and kissed him again, lingering over his soft bottom lip before he pulled away. “I'll be honest with you, Bruce -- I don't do gentle. It's just not in my DNA, I'm not a gentle guy. But I'll _try._ And I promise you, I will not hit you.” He paused. “Even though I wouldn't mind slapping that hot ass.” He pulled down Bruce's pants as he spoke, revealing anatomy that looked more Hulk-sized than he had expected.

Bruce smiled, but looked worried. _Oh, shit,_ Clint thought, _I'm really gonna have to tone it down._ It wasn't going to be easy.

“Lay down on the bed,” he said, trying not to sound as demanding as he felt.

Bruce got on his knees instead, kissing Clint's thighs and taking his rock hard shaft in his hands. 

“Uh-uh,” Clint shook his head, “Not this time. If you blow me, I swear, I'll come in a second. And we don't want that. Now, lay your ass down on the bed.”

Bruce lay down on his back, and Clint knelt between his legs, taking a moment to let his hands wander over the naked body, enjoying the moans of pleasure he received.

“Mmm, Brucie, I'm gonna fuck you now,” he murmured, spitting on his open palm and working the saliva over his cock, pressing it against Bruce's ass.

Bruce winced. “Clint? Could you, um... ummmm....”

“You want me to use real lube?” Clint guessed.

“Yes, please.”

By the time Clint found the bottle shoved deep under the bed, Bruce was losing his erection, so Clint put his lips around the huge cock to suck it back to life. Bruce moaned loudly and grabbed the back of Clint's head, shoving his face all the way down and holding him there until Clint felt the hardening shaft push against the back of his throat. He choked at first, but managed to relax his throat as Bruce bucked his hips up, fucking his mouth.

“You're not so gentle yourself,” Clint grinned when Bruce finally let him up for air.

Bruce blushed, but then his face became grave. “Still, though, don't be too rough.”

“I told you I'd _try_. But you're just so damn hot, I don't know if I --” He saw the worry in his lover's face and changed course. “I promise I won't do anything you don't want me to. Okay?” He leaned forward and brushed his lips over the bruised cheek. “I would never do that to you.”

He moved carefully as he pushed himself slowly inside, watching Bruce's face for any signs of discomfort.

“You like that?” he asked, pumping a little harder. “You like feeling my dick inside you?” He had to stop himself from calling him some derogatory name, like maybe his little sex slave; he was used to peppering his dirty talk with that sort of thing, but knew he couldn't say any of that shit this time around. 

Bruce answered with a moan of pleasure, his head thrown back in ecstasy. “Unh... yeah, I like it.”

“Mmm,” Clint moaned, “I wanna pin your arms down and --”

“No!” came the quick reply.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Bruce didn't seem to have a problem with the increasing ferocity of his thrusts, though, so he picked up the pace until he was slamming into him hard and fast, as deep as he could push, still watching his lover closely for the merest hint of distress. 

There was none. From the desperate sounds he was making and the look on his face, Bruce was having the time of his life. And when he uttered, “Unh – Clint!” and began to come, Clint couldn't hold on any longer and he came too, yelling aloud in his pleasure with no regard to the others downstairs and what they might hear. 

“Was it okay?” he whispered after he had finished and slid himself out, and he tugged at his lover's earlobe with his teeth. “I wasn't too aggressive?”

“Mmm, you were perfect, Clint,” Bruce murmured, turning to kiss his lips.

“Then we'll do this again sometime?”

“Mm-hm... let's do it, like... _all_ the time.” Bruce laughed.

“See, Brucie?” Clint slung his leg over the other man's hip to nudge him closer. “I told you I love you. I love you so fuckin' much.” 

“I love you, too, Clint. So much.”

They snuggled closer, both of them happier than they had ever thought they would be, and fell asleep in the safety of each other's arms.


End file.
